Sucker bet - James Swain [10]
“A Jersey boy,” Mabel said.
“A Jersey hero,” he corrected.
She put the paper aside, then read from a message pad beside the phone. “Your son called from Puerto Rico to say he and Yolanda are loving every minute of their honeymoon. He asked if you were still mad at him, and I said I thought you’d gotten over having to pay for his wedding and his honeymoon.”
Valentine bristled. “He hit me up for five grand on his wedding night. He knows damn well—”
Mabel touched his wrist. “Tony, stop obsessing over it. You have more money than you know what to do with. Your boy’s trying to get his life straightened out.”
“That’s right. He’s trying.”
“You make that sound like an ugly word.”
“He’s thirty-five years old. When’s he going to start doing?”
Mabel had two grown children and had accepted long ago that she couldn’t control their lives. She glanced down at her pad. “The second message was from Bill Higgins of the Nevada Gaming Control Board. He said he needed your help on a case.”
“I’m not going to Nevada.”
“You are in one foul mood, young man.”
“Every time a casino gets scammed, I get a distress call. You think these morons would consider having me check their joints out before they get ripped off? Fat chance.”
“I thought Bill was a friend.”
“I’m not going to run every time he calls, friend or not.”
There were days when she couldn’t win with him. Her eyes returned to her pad. “The third message was from Harry Smooth Stone at the Micanopy Indian reservation casino. He called yesterday, as well. He sounds desperate.”
“Too bad,” Valentine said.
A person could take just so much abuse. Mabel said good-bye, and Valentine walked her to the sidewalk in front of his house.
“You are such a bear,” she said.
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to take it out on you.”
“Are you going to sit around, waiting for her to call?”
It sounded pitiful, and he said, “What are you suggesting?”
“Go help Bill Higgins, or Harry Smooth Stone. Take your mind off your problems for a few days.”
He didn’t want to go to Vegas. Too much time coming and going. The Micanopy reservation casino was in south Florida, and a leisurely four-hour drive. Down today, back tomorrow. Maybe Mabel was right. A change of scenery would do him good.
“I’ll think about it,” he said.
3
On paper, it had seemed like a great idea.
The town of Davie sat fifteen miles due west of Fort Lauderdale. A carnival had arrived the day before, and sat in the middle of an empty cow pasture, the Ferris wheel and brightly colored tents visible for miles.
Rico’s idea was this: Candy would talk Nigel Moon into taking her to the carnival. Then she’d get Moon to play a few games, like throw the balls in the milk can, and cover the spot. Rico knew these games were rigged and could be juiced to let the players win or lose. All he had to do was bribe the carnival owner, and the Moon’s “lucky” streak would be alive and well.
Only Rico hadn’t counted on the carnival owner’s stubbornness. He was a Cajun named Ray Hicks, and he wore suspenders and a porkpie hat. Rico cornered him outside Hicks’s trailer, a beat-up rig with patched tires and a wheezing air conditioner, and stuck a C note in the old flattie’s face. Hicks looked at the money, then scoffed.
“Get away from me with that chicken scratch, boy.”
Rico upped his offer. He’d worked with carnival people back in Brooklyn when he was under John Gotti’s thumb. The carnival would rent a church parking lot and set up shop. For this privilege, the carnival paid Gotti half the apron, or daily take. Rico’s job had been to collect the apron and make sure Gotti didn’t get shortchanged.
Hicks spit on the ground. “You’re dreamin’, boy.”
On the other side of the carnival, Moon and Candy were riding the Ferris wheel. Candy wore a flaming red pants suit; Moon, Bermuda shorts and a polo shirt.
“I’m just